Tommy Noonan had decided to play it safe. Hanging around the video arcade just cost him money. He figured he'd keep a low profile and hang out someplace else for a while... which is how he came to be sitting in a back booth of Joe's Diner, nursing a soda, when the protection gang came back.
It wasn't just one guy this time. There were three of them, and two looked like they could go ten rounds with a rhinoceros. The slim one wore a white shirt and called himself Shiner; he couldn't hide the contempt in his glare as he looked around the diner.
"What an awful place," he sniffed, in a harsh East River accent. "Hardly worth Mr. Bentini's involvement. Still, we must be thorough. If one place didn't pay its insurance, why, others might also think they could step out of line."
"You'll get nothing out of me, no matter how many of you there are," Joe blustered. "I got no extra cash!"
Shiner snorted with derision. "Everyone knows about your secret savings, Joe. Mr. Bentini doesn't want all of it --- only his routine insurance premiums."
Barbara Wilson was serving at the actors' table and flirting with Andy Hammond, feeling good because he was flirting back. Then she heard the raised voices as Joe started to argue, and excused herself to return to the front of the diner.
"Leave this to me," Barbara told Joe, stepping in front of the old man. Completely ignoring the two goons, she stared right into Shiner's eyes and held his gaze. "You claim you're selling insurance?"
"That's right, girlie. The old man pays up, and nothing bad will happen to these premises. Guaranteed."
"You have a copy of the policy?" Barbara asked. Shiner's expression went blank. Barbara turned to the dozen or so patrons in the diner and raised her voice. "Excuse me, folks. I wonder if you would witness this? Mr. Bentini's insurance company is selling Joe a policy, yet this man has no copy."
People looked over, then looked away worriedly as the thugs glowered back at them. Shiner's lip curled in distaste. "I don't like people who make try to a fool of me. I presume you're the same chick who bounced Ratman last week. Mr. Bentini would like a personal word with you!" He snapped his fingers imperiously. "Rake! Bandor! Escort the lady out!"
One of the muscle men's hands closed around Barbara's arm. The girl tensed, ready to fight back, but then she saw the fear on Joe's face. Barbara wasn't afraid of these goons, no matter their size, but it wouldn't be right to fight them in here, the diner might get wrecked and innocent folks hurt.
Bandor and Rake half carried her out of the diner. Joe, Andy, and a small knot of people followed. Tommy Noonan was among them, watching everything with keen interest.
At the curb sat a gleaming white Mercedes, looking like it had just been driven off of a showroom floor. The personalized number plate read BAD1, and it belonged to Rafael Bentini, a man with his fingers in a dozen shady pies. As the hoods hustled Barbara over to the car, the rear window slid noiselessly open.
A sibilant voice hissed from the shadows. "So you're the troublemaker. I'll give you a choice --- move on, or we'll break every bone in your body." There was a pause as unseen eyes looked her over from head to toe. "After the boys have a little fun with it first," the voice then added.
"Is that so?" Barbara straightened unexpectedly, shoving Rake back from her. "Well, I'll give you a choice, Bentini --- leave this diner alone, or I'll personally guarantee you end up in jail!"
"Fix her!" Bentini hissed angrily.
Barbara dodged the two goons and jumped up onto the car trunk, sliding over it to land on the other side. The driver's window was open, with the keys still in the ignition.
Shiner should have been more careful, Barbara thought. She reached in and grabbed the keys.
"Drop 'em!" Bentini cried from the back seat.
Barbara just laughed and tossed the keys from one hand to the other. She spun away on one foot, the other rising karate-style to slam into Rake's belly as the big thug lunged at her. The blow caused Rake to sprawl back into Bandor, and as they became entangled Barbara moved again.
Her foot lashed out, but this time it smashed the car's front headlamp. She ignored the screech of fury from inside, and moved coldly, deliberately to smash the other light. As the thugs charged around the car toward her, she ripped off the expensive electronic side mirror and hurled it back at them.
"She's wrecking my car!" Bentini was almost beside himself with rage. "Plug her!"
Easily avoiding an outstretched hand, Barbara vaulted up onto the car roof, stamping down hard several times with the heel of her riding boot. Someone in the crowd outside the diner laughed, then broke off abruptly. Shiner had pulled a gun and was taking aim.
Barbara moved without even thinking. Leaping into the double somersault move Dick Grayson had taught her, she spun twice in the air as the bullet passed harmlessly under her. Then her feet lashed out, taking Shiner in the chest with a loud whack, sending him back against the wall. The gun flew from Shiner's hand and he sank to the ground, unconscious.
The Batman had taught her to loathe guns. Guns were deadly. Dick's parents had been killed by one. Once fired, a shot could never be taken back. Barbara kicked the weapon with the side of her foot and sent it sliding into the gutter.
The two goons came at her again, one from each side. Barbara ducked low, then sprang up again. The top of her head took Bandor solidly under the chin with a crack that could be heard a block away. As the man sank to his knees, clutching his numb jaw, Barbara rubbed her head. That had hurt her, too --- but there was no time to stop and think about it. Rake was charging her, a blackjack swinging wildly in his hand.
Barbara fell on her back, feet up. She caught Rake in the chest and sent him sailing high overhead, slamming against a lamppost with bone-jarring impact.
As she leaped to her feet, ready for the next assault, Barbara heard the squeal of tires. A police car pulled up, its siren belatedly whooping into life for a couple of seconds before shutting off again.
Shiner and the two thugs were dazed and bruised. Barbara strolled up to the Mercedes with the two officers as Rafael Bentini got out. He was a small, neat man with an almost babyish face. But when he spoke, his voice revealed his true nature.
"I want that girl arrested," he rasped venomously, pointing at Barbara. "She attacked my friends and me for no reason. She committed serious damage to my new car!"
"You have anything to say for yourself, kid?" one cop asked Barbara, while the other scratched his head, inspecting the dents and broken lights and mirrors on the luxury auto.
Barbara nodded toward Shiner and the two bruisers, by now recovering and looking more than slightly sheepish. "They wanted to take money that didn't belong to them. They threatened to break every bone in my body." She didn't mention the fun part.
"You beat all three of them?" the policeman asked, incredulously looking over her graceful feminine form.
Belatedly, Barbara realized the risk she'd run in teaching Bentini and his goons a lesson. Ordinary people can't do the things trained crimefighters can. Now she understood why Bruce Wayne so often acted the wimp; he could never take the chance of someone making the connection to his secret identity.
"I... I guess I got lucky," Barbara said lamely. She pointed at Shiner. "He had a gun. You'll find it in the gutter over there. And if you need any witnesses as to what happened, there are a dozen over by the diner." Her arm swept around to point in that direction.
"All right, gents," one of the cops said to the gang. The police knew full well who they were, but it wasn't often Bentini's mob did anything stupid enough to give themselves away. "Let's go down to the precinct and get statements from you, check your gun license, driver's license, birth certificate..."
Barbara suppressed an impish grin as the foursome were bundled and squeezed into the back of the police car. She whistled to catch Bentini's attention, then tossed the car keys to him. "You'll be needing these," she said. "To drive to the repair shop. I just hope you're insured!"
Chattering excitedly, the other diners watched till the men were driven off, then went back inside. Lagging behind, Tommy Noonan sauntered in and ordered another soda. Though he sat casually in a back booth, his eyes never left Joe and his main waitress.
Joe moved straight to shake Barbara's hand. "I can't thank you enough, sweetie. It warmed my heart to see those thugs get their just desserts!"
"That's only the start," Barbara said. "They'll have to appear in court, too."
Joe shook his head. "I doubt it. You'd need to get these folks" --- he indicated the other diners, back at their tables --- "to agree to testify. And they won't. Because Bentini would send goons to torch their houses or kidnap their kids."
"If you all stood together," Barbara began, but Joe broke in. "Bentini would knock us down together! Believe me, sweetie, nobody can take the chance that they'll be the next victim."
"So the perps get away to practice their 'business' another day?" Barbara said disgustedly.
"That's the way of the world, sweetie."
"Why doesn't somebody do something?"
Joe shrugged. "Like who? We're all just ordinary guys. We can't stand up to organized crime. The cops try, but they have a zillion other problems, especially with this Black Mask thing going on. They do say there's a guy" --- Joe's voice dropped dramatically, almost to a whisper --- "They call him the Batman. He's supposed to help folks when they need it. But that's a full-time job for a thousand Batmen! No sirree, I sure don't expect to see him around Joe's Diner!"
Tommy Noonan ran his fingers through his spiky black hair, got to his feet, and slouched out into the night.
Back at the diner, Barbara Wilson and Joe Wagner's conversation had taken a darker turn. "I'm thinking of buying a gun," the old man announced. "That way, nobody will put the hammer on me again!"
Barbara wasn't happy about the idea. "Most gun-related injuries are caused by people who don't know how to use them properly," she pointed out. "You have difficulty programming the coffeemaker, let alone dismantling, cleaning, oiling, and loading a gun!"
"There's truth in that," Joe admitted. "But I'd just feel safer. It's a jungle out there, Barbara. The strong prey on the weak!"
"But it doesn't have to be that way," Barbara protested. "People aren't evil because they're born that way. They make decisions about it. I mean, nobody forced Bentini's protection gang to be crooks. They could be working on a construction site."
Joe nodded. "You're right, of course. It's that decision, between good and evil, that makes us human," he said sagely. "But I'd still feel safer if I had a gun!"
"Take it from one who knows, Joe --- guns aren't the solution. You don't get a second chance with a bullet. I've seen it all too often."
The old man saw grief wash over the girl's face. "Want to talk about it?" he asked gently.
Instinctively, Barbara knew that the old man would understand. But she didn't want to talk about it. Not yet. She just was not ready to go back to the whole Batgirl thing. "I'm still trying to come to terms with it myself," was all she said.
Tommy Noonan was picked up the police at noon the next day, on his way to the diner. They put him in the car but made no effort to drive off, just sat there, both policemen turned around in the front seat to question him.
The hard-faced cop, Gwynne according to his nametag, spoke first. "Somebody's been robbing folks around here. Dressing up in a fright mask and robbing 'em!"
"What else is new?" Tommy said fliply.
"Whoever's been taking other folks' money," Gwynne continued doggedly, "we thought --- maybe he's been spending it. So we asked around the coffee shops, the bars, the arcades, and the pool halls. And what do you know, somebody said that kid with the spiky hair, Tommy Noonan, sure has been throwing money around like water lately."
Tommy's blood turned to ice, but he forced himself to stay nonchalant. Of course --- he should have thought of that. Spending the cash in the neighborhood made him a suspect. If they had a warrant, they could search the house and they'd find his costume and what little remained of the money. He hardly heard the other cop say, "Make it easy on all of us, son. Just tell us --- did you do it?"
"Excuse me?" Tommy's voice was hoarse. "I don't know what you're talking about. I never robbed anybody in my life." As he went on, he started to feel more confident. "Sure I had some money to spend. But that's not a crime, is it?" He was starting to feel genuinely indignant, as if he really were innocent. "If that don't beat all --- suspecting somebody of being a robber because he spent some of his own hard-earned cash!"
"So we're just wasting our time?" Gwynne stared at Tommy, but Tommy didn't flinch. With a sigh, the policeman climbed out and opened the back door. "Go on, then, son. Get out of here."
"But don't go too far," Gwynne's partner warned Tommy. "We might want to question you again."
Tommy felt triumph swell inside him. They didn't know anything. They were just bluffing. They had no evidence. But he was careful not to let them see how good he felt. He'd lied to the police and gotten away with it. The cops were just the same as anybody else --- stupid, trusting, almost begging to be taken advantage of. But he was invincible, like some kind of a superhero!
"Glad to be of assistance, officers," Tommy said graciously, smothering his smug grin as he got out of the car and sauntered off down the road.
The encounter had taught him something important, he realized. What if they'd called at his house! He made up his mind. He needed someplace else to hide the costume and his loot. And another thing --- no more of these small-time stickups. He could spend five hundred dollars in only a few days. He needed something bigger, a score that would keep him living the high life for weeks. Months, even.
And Tommy Noonan thought he knew exactly what that score was!
The abandoned apartment block was set well back from Delaney Street. Most of the doors and windows were covered with rusting corrugated iron or plywood. Nobody had lived there for a decade; it was just another festering ruin, in a city that paradoxically was full of both empty buildings and homeless people.
This building provided a shelter for only one person now --- Tommy Noonan. He'd brought his money, his costume, and plenty of food and drink. He'd told his parents he'd be staying with a friend for a few days. He settled into a room on the fifth floor, just one story below the roof. He chose it for a very special reason. From its south-facing window, he could see down the street and into the façade of Joe's Diner.
If gangsters like Rafael Bentini were interested in Joe's secret stash, you could bet it was a jackpot. And who better to win that jackpot than the Enemy? He'd seen what the old man's helper had done to the gang, but it just made him think Joe's stash must be even larger, if he'd hired some hotshot female martial arts expert to protect it!
The enemy was in no hurry to tangle with Joe's bouncer, however, no matter how good looking she was. But even bouncers need a night off, he figured. So he'd watched, unmoving, for several nights now, recording the girl's schedule. She arrived at 8 P.M. sharp and didn't leave until eight hours later. What a chump, Tommy thought, working in a dive like that all night!
Chump yourself! his inner voice mocked him. You're waiting here all night.
"Yeah, but I'm doing my homework. And I'll be getting paid for it soon, in spades!"
The sixth night the girl didn't show. The Enemy crouched by his window, watching, chewing snacks, occasionally sipping from a soda can. An hour passed. As he became convinced that tonight was the night, he began to feel the way he always felt before he committed a crime --- that weird mixture of anticipatory excitement and terror of being caught.
Another hour passed. The regulars came and went. No sign of the girl. It had to be her night off!
Just after eleven o'clock, the diner went through one of its slack periods. There were no customers at all. It was now or never. The Enemy had become more bold with each crime he'd committed, but this would be his biggest yet.
He eased out of the window and slid down the rope he'd left hanging there.
Once on the ground he kept in the shadows, skirting pools of light from the streetlamps, as he raced toward the diner. The effort had him breathing hard. That was the only problem with the outfit --- the mask got hot and airless. But it was worth its weight in gold for frightening --- and that's what Tommy intended to do now.
At the city fairground, the Big Wheel rolled, its lights flashing hypnotically as it carried laughing, screaming boys and girls in the air. In one of the baskets, Andy Hammond looked out into the distance at the city. "Look at all those lights," he gasped. "The city sure is beautiful from up here." Like you, he added to himself, looking at the beautiful girl beside him, though he didn't voice the thought.
In the seat beside him Barbara Wilson nodded, snuggling closer and resting her head against his shoulder. "It is great, isn't it?" She didn't tell him she'd seen this view dozens of times. She couldn't tell him that she'd seen it as Batgirl, swinging through the nighttime rooftops with Batman and Robin. Though she had to admit, from up here Black Mask and his army of zombies, the False Face Society of Gotham, seemed a zillion miles away. So did Sean Romaine and his creepy quirks.
No, she was done with that life. This life might not be perfect, but she was happier now.
At least she thought she was. That was what she kept telling herself.
Andy smiled as the Big Wheel lurched to a halt to let a couple off and another to get on at the bottom. He liked Barbara --- she was kind and thoughtful, and she showed flashes of a really keen sense of humor. Beautiful, too, as his friends had pointed out more than once when they'd dared him to ask her out.
As the Big Wheel lurched into motion again, he put his arm around her shoulder and she snuggled even closer, again resting her head against his shoulder.
He was glad he'd taken the dare.
Invisible in the shadows, the Enemy peered in through the diner window. Just Joe, seated on his old chair, reading a magazine, drinking coffee. As swiftly and silently as he could, the Enemy slipped inside the door, flipped the OPEN 24 HOURS sign to read CLOSED, then hit the main light switch.
The diner plunged into darkness except for the glow of the controls on the coffeemaker.
"Yes!" Andy Hammond chortled delightedly as the hoop he'd thrown fell down over a fluffy yellow duck. He pumped his fist.
He grinned at the girl beside him as the stall owner handed him the prize, the fluffy yellow toy, which on closer inspection looked more like a dolphin from some alien dimension. He started to give the toy to the girl, then suddenly snatched it away. "Think you can do better?" he teased.
But Barbara Wilson didn't rise to the bait. She knew she could, but ever since the incident at the diner she'd been careful not to show off too much of her athletic abilities. In addition the crowds of laughing, happy people had had a strange effect on her. She felt suddenly depressed, reminded even more acutely by the families all around her that she had no family of her own.
"Sourpuss!" Andy pushed the duck into her hands and turned away. Cuddling the fluffy yellow thing against her, Barbara had no choice but to follow him.
A beam of light stabbed the darkness inside the diner. Joe had taken his flashlight from beneath the counter, and now he swung it to face the aisle. He gasped and almost dropped the light as it illuminated the figure before him in all its terror.
"Sweet mercy, what are you...?" the old man cried.
"I am the Enemy. Your enemy --- the enemy of all Gotham! Where's the money hidden?" Tommy kept his voice low and, he hoped, unrecognizable. The cops had hassled him once; he didn't want them coming back.
"I... I don't have any money," Joe stuttered, "just what's in the register."
The Enemy cut him short with an impatient gesture and stepped closer to the counter. "Liar! I know about your secret stash. Where is it? Show me, or else!"
"You'll never get it!" Suddenly Joe swung the flashlight back and brought it crashing down like a baton on the Enemy's head. Tommy managed to raise an arm and ward off the blow, though it sent shock waves all the way down his fingers. Joe raised the flashlight to bring it down again, but this time he was too slow. The Enemy lashed out with a gloved fist.
Even the Tunnel of Love couldn't snap Barbara Wilson out of her depression. True, Andy Hammond did put his arm around her shoulder and she snuggled against him in a halfhearted way, but any fool could tell that her thoughts were a zillion miles away.
By the time their carriage emerged at the other end, Andy had firmly decided that beautiful girls didn't necessarily make the best first dates.
The Enemy's blow caught Joe on the side of the head. He staggered against the counter, and a stack of plates went crashing to the floor. He fell against his chair and grabbed at it, trying to steady himself, but it fell over with him. As the chair struck the tiles, its seat was knocked off by the impact... and a shower of cash came bursting out.
"Help! Help! Joe called out as he struggled to get to his feet.
The Enemy panicked. "Shut up!" he rasped. His hand fell on a heavy glass ashtray. He swung it savagely. There was an awful crunching sound as the glass hit Joe's skull. Blood flowed from the wound. Joe gasped and slid backward. He tried to speak but the words wouldn't come, and he fell back in pain.
"I'm sorry. I'm not much fun, am I, Andy?" Barbara Wilson said.
"I get the impression you're not really trying, Barbara. What say we call it a night and go home?"
"You're sure you don't mind? I feel like I've let you down."
"Tell you what," Andy Hammond said with a smile. "I know a place where you can buy me a cup of coffee first."
"I warned you!" the Enemy hissed. "This is your own fault! You should have told me!"
He was down on his knees, scooping up as many of the bills as he could. Everything had gone wrong. This wasn't supposed to happen. He'd never meant to hurt the old man!
He ran from the diner, bills stuffed in all his pockets. Across the street he grabbed the end of his rope and hauled himself up it. He cursed as the grapple dislodged some debris from the rotting wall. But it held, and seconds later he was up on the roof. He lay for a moment, staring up at the sky, panting with effort. Then he yanked up the rope and headed for his secret hideout.
The cab pulled up to the diner. Andy Hammond paid the driver hurriedly as he and Barbara Wilson got out, both knowing immediately that something wasn't right because the diner lights were out. And Joe's was always open.
Andy chivalrously tried to hold Barbara back so he could go in first but she would have none of it, following at his heels, yellow duck tucked under one arm. She groped behind the door for the light switch, snapped the lights on, and stared, stunned. There had been a fight. The chair was knocked over. Broken dishes. A few bills were scattered here and there.
Dropping the yellow duck, Barbara rushed behind the counter, then froze in horror. The old man was lying on the floor, his leg twisted under him. Blood stained the tiles around his head. An icy blast shot up Barbara's spine.
"Joe?" Her voice was barely audible. "Joe --- are you...?"
She turned to Andy. "Call an ambulance! And the police!"
Turning back to Joe, Barbara knelt by his side, fingers gingerly feeling for a pulse in the old man's wrist. There was none. Heart sinking, she leaned over him, close to his face. There was no breath she could detect.
"Cancel the ambulance," Barbara said quietly. Andy frowned, his hand on the receiver.
"He's dead," Barbara whispered, and raised a hand to brush away the tear that clouded her eye.
Tommy Noonan arrived home at one A.M., just as his father got up for his glass of water. "Boy, where have you been all this time?"
Tommy mumbled some excuse and hurried to his room. His emotions were in turmoil --- terrified he'd be caught, but exultant that he'd escaped. He'd counted the money. More than three thousand dollars. He was rich!
But what would happen if the old man died? There'd be murder hunt. Stealing was one thing, but murder...
Even with the city in the grips of Black Mask's reign of terror. Perhaps even because of it. If the police couldn't catch Black Mask, they'd damn well want to catch another murderer, if only to redeem themselves in the eyes of the public --- those they were sworn to serve and protect.
I warned the old guy! He shouldn't have tried to stop me. It was his own stupid fault. But the old man's face, lit for an instant by the flashlight, came to haunt him each time he closed his eyes.
He'd been in fights before --- fistfights at school, a couple of brawls at the arcade. Tommy knew how to handle himself. But the old man hadn't fought back. He'd just crumpled, like a sack of bones.
Tommy Noonan did not sleep at all that night.
The police had taken statements from the two of them, then taken Andy Hammond home. Barbara Wilson stayed to lock up after the forensic team had finished dusting for fingerprints and looking for clues.
"I'm not hopeful," Lieutenant Kidson, the officer in charge, told her. "No prints, probably means the culprit was wearing gloves. Seems he did it for the old man's money, panicked, and grabbed what he could." His eyes narrowed. "Who else knew about the money?"
"The whole neighborhood, it seems," Barbara said wearily. "He was going to use the money to visit his daughter's family in Australia. He'd never seen them." A lump rose in the girl's throat. "And now he never will."
She turned to the detective. "How could anybody do that? How could they kill a harmless old man?"
"When you've been around as long as I have," Kidson told her, "you're never surprised by what people will do. It's usually for love or hate, or money. Or a combination of all three."
Kidson offered Barbara a ride home, but the girl declined. She had her motorcycle, and she certainly didn't want the police driving her back to Wayne Manor. She wanted to be alone with her memories of Joe, and her troubled thoughts. She sat in the darkened diner, in Joe's favorite chair, her mind racing.
It seemed unreal that in this day and age, an old man could be bludgeoned to death for a few scraps of paper. And then she remembered all the other things --- the muggings and thefts, the drunks, the gangs, the random violence. The victims were like Joe --- poor, honest, decent folks. What was it Joe had said? Ordinary folks are like a host body, and all the parasites, the fleas and vampires and mosquitoes, they feed on us.
Victims of parasites. Just like Joe. Just like every other crime victim. Sure, Batman had tried to help. But Gotham was a city of eight million people. Even Batman couldn't be everywhere, couldn't help everyone.
Then why does he do it? Barbara wondered. It's a war he can never win. For every innocent person he helps, a dozen more will end up hurt. Why doesn't he just give in?
And in a flash of sudden understanding, she knew. It was as if the words spoke themselves inside her head: Batman does it because he chooses to do it. Because the people need him. Because the world needs heroes. And if Batman didn't do it... then there would be even more pain, and misery, and hurt in the world.
Barbara thought long and hard, and the longer she sat there, the more determined she became. She had reached a decision. She had made a choice.
And in that moment, a heroine was reborn.
She could have asked Bruce Wayne for help. In other words, she could have called in Batman and Robin. But they had their hands full with Black Mask. And Joe had been her friend. That made it personal, something Barbara Wilson had to sort out for herself.
She'd only worked with the Batman a short time, but it was enough for her to have learned that the foundation that underlies all good crimefighting is basic detective work. There's no point rushing into action unless you have a plan. And to have a plan, you need data.
The police were working on the case, of course, but Barbara had no way of accessing any information they might have. If they'd come up with any clues, they were playing it close to their vests, because there was no mention of any leads on the TV news or in the papers, where Barbara scanned every word written about the tragedy.
She thought of Joe's daughter, and the grandsons in Australia who would now never meet their grandfather. She wouldn't let the old man's death go unavenged! There must be some way of tracking down his killer.
And then it struck her --- Rafael Bentini. The man had threatened Joe. Barbara had publicly humiliated him, cost him a lot of money on car repair, and messed up his strong-arm boys. It had to be Bentini!
A sickening realization struck her. If it was Bentini, Joe's death would have been Barbara's fault. Perhaps if Barbara hadn't acted rashly, hadn't shown off, Joe might still be alive today. Barbara clenched her fist so hard it hurt.
Bentini wouldn't have done it himself, of course. That's why he hired goons. No doubt the cops would figure it out sooner or later, too. Barbara knew she had to get there first.
But not as Barbara Wilson. And not as Batgirl --- she was done with that. She began to search through her closet and quickly found exactly what she needed.
The black unitard would give her complete freedom of movement, leaving her limbs bare and cleared for action. Well, not completely bare; fishnet stockings would give her legs some protection. And the black leather motorcycle jacket would give her some protection from the cold while providing her with pockets in which to carry things. The black leather ankle boots would protect her feet, while letting her ride, or run.
She might be done with Batgirl, but not completely. In one of the saddlebags of her motorcycle was a duplicate set of all the gear she'd carried in Batgirl's Utility Belt. Retrieving it, she stuffed it all into the pockets of the jacket.
She stood in front of the mirror, studying her reflection. "You go, girl!" she told herself, doing a quick pirouette. "You look like a..."
What did she look like? What was she going to call herself? Not Batgirl --- that wasn't her, that was someone else. Now, she was...
Nightbird!
The name came to her out of nowhere. "Nightbird," she said the name aloud, rolling it on her tongue, liking the sound of it. Yes, tonight she would be Nightbird, an avenging creature of the night.
She could hardly wait for night to fall.
"Your so-called friends have enough of you?" Mrs. Noonan asked, scowling at her son. "You haven't left the house all day."
Tommy Noonan didn't look up from where he was slouched in front of the TV. "Just leave me alone!" he snapped. Wasn't that just like his parents? First they moan at you because you're out, then they complain when you stay in.
But Tommy couldn't even be bothered arguing with them. He'd heard on the news that the old man was dead. He kept seeing his face, and the little voice inside him said over and over: You killed him! You killed him!
Unable to shut the memories of last night from his mind, Tommy got suddenly to his feet. "I'm going out," he announced.
"To look for a job?" his father asked dubiously.
"Yeah. Right," his mother said with dripping sarcasm.
Tommy stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him. He had enough whirling around his brain without his parents adding to it.
Unconsciously, he turned and walked in the direction of the diner. He stopped short on the sidewalk. They say a murderer always returns the scene of the crime; he'd heard it on a dozen TV crime shows. That's how they always got caught.
Well, Tommy Noonan was nobody's fool. He switched directions and wandered aimlessly for a while. He was sorry the old man was dead. Of course he was. But it was the old man's own fault for fighting back. He shouldn't have. If he'd just given in and handed over the money, he'd be alive now.
Tommy bit his lip anxiously. If the police pulled him in again, the questions would be harder to answer. They'd tear the neighborhood apart to get their killer. They'd grill his parents, search the apartment...
Better if I leave town for a while, Tommy thought. I can head out west, somewhere I'm not known --- where nobody would care about a dead old man in Gotham. Yes, his mind was made up. He was leaving. He would stop by his hideout and collect his things. But it was far too dangerous to enter in daylight.
He could hardly wait for night to fall.
The last rays of the sun had barely set when a graceful dark figure swung through the rooftops of the city.
High above the traffic, Nightbird soared like, well, like a night bird. Her grapple snaked out, held; then she was swinging, landing on some ledge or parapet, her weighted line once more arcing into the night. Her entire attention was focused on the task at hand, knowing that only the smallest of slips stood between life and a plunge to the pavement hundreds of feet below. But the last of the Flying Graysons had trained her well.
Ahead was what she was looking for --- the luxurious River Heights condo, where Rafael Bentini owned the entire penthouse floor.
It was a clear evening, and from here the Milky Way was just visible in the night sky. Bentini and his men were sitting in the glass-walled living room of his fabulous home. A stack of large wooden crates sat along one wall, no doubt filled with something illicit.
The men were playing poker. They'd been charged with various violations of the law after the diner brawl, but Bentini didn't pay a sharp lawyer for nothing, and they were all free on a few thousand dollars' bail. The lawyer would appeal against any hearing, and generally delay things until the authorities gave up out of sheer frustration.
Shiner happened to look up, glancing out onto the rooftop patio. He did a double take. "Boss!"
Bentine didn't believe his eyes. Standing there on the patio, flanked by two palm trees, was a young woman in a black leather jacket, black unitard, black fishnet stockings, and black boots. "I want some answers from you, Bentini!" the black-clad newcomer roared, her voice loud enough to be heard through the glass.
"You'll get hot lead, sister! This is private property, and you're trespassing," Bentini hissed. "Open the door! Shiner! Plug her!"
A shaven-headed thug hit the switch that activated the heavy glass door. As it slid open, Shiner pulled his pistol and fired off three rapid shots. The girl dived aside.
The shots missed her, and shattered a large stone planting urn. Two bat-shaped throwing weapons spun from her hands in rapid succession, slicing through the air and into the room. The first whacked heavily into Shiner's wrist, making him curse and drop the gun. Even before the gun hit the floor, the second slammed into the thug's forehead. He went out like a light.
An instant later the girl somersaulted into the room, her feet lashing out to strike Rake and Bandor. Before they could recover their balance, the girl had landed. In one smooth movement her left foot came up in a powerful karate kick, knocking Bandor's legs from under him.
She'd gone easy with the thugs the other night, wary not to show too much expertise in front of the public. But here inside Bentini's house there was no need to hold back, no onlookers to witness the harsh beating she administered to them. Leaving them groaning on the floor, she began her search of the penthouse.
She found Bentini trying to hide in the bedroom's walk-in closet, and hauled the dimunitive gang boss out.
"Who... who are you?" he croaked, eyes wide with fear, one hand grabbing her forearm but making no.real effort to break free.
"You can call me Nightbird." She had Bentini by the shirt front, pulling the evil little man's face close to hers. "Did you kill old Joe Wagner?" She tightened her grip a fraction.
Bentini squealed like a pig in pain and let go of her arm. "No! I swear, his death had nothing to do with me or my boys!"
"Then who did kill him?"
"You're not the cops," Bentini protested, squirming futilely in her grasp. "I don't have to tell you anything!"
Nightbird's grip tightened another fraction, and the gang boss winced. "I'm not a cop," she said, "so I don't have to play nice." The girl's grim gaze burned into the gangster, and she raised her other arm into his field of view, the gloved hand clenched into a fist. "I won't ask you twice."
Bentini knew when he was beaten. "Word on the street is some robber who calls himself the Enemy might have killed him. The guy's been mugging folks around here for weeks."
"What's his real name?"
"I don't know. He wears a mask and a black leather jacket. Like you."
"Where do I find him?"
"No idea. The cops pulled some suspects from the local video arcade but let them all go."
Nightbird's face was only a few inches from the gang boss's, but she thrust it closer still. "If you're lying," she said coldly, "I'll be back. And if I come back, it'll take a team of experienced medics a very long time to put you and your boys back together again."
The girl's gloved hand dropped from Bentini's shirt, and he crumpled to the floor at her feet. She stepped over him and left without another word or even a backward glance.
The arcade was a dive on Beecker Street. Nightbird would have preferred to go in as Barbara Wilson, spend some time there before coming to a conclusion. But time was something she might not have. This "Enemy" had to be stopped before he murdered again.
The manager was a weedy little guy with a balding head, and even though he looked Nightbird up and down with raised eyebrows, he was too polite to make any remarks. And he was happy to answer Nightbird's questions. It didn't take long before Tommy Noonan's name cropped up.
"He's been throwing a lot of money around lately," the manager said. "My guess is, he's trying to impress the girls. Funny, though, because he doesn't have a job."
"What does he look like?" Nightbird wanted to know.
"Tall, strong. About eighteen years old. Black hair that sticks up in spikes whatever he does with it." His eyes flicked to her clothes. "Wears a leather coat, black jeans."
It was the mention of the hair that did it. Nightbird cast her mind back to the night Bentini came to the diner. What customers were in? Andy Hammond and his actor friends. Bill was in the corner. Several faces she didn't know... and yes, a teenager in a black jacket, with spiky black hair.
Using the hall phone, Nightbird got Noonan's number from the operator. Tommy's mother said he wasn't in. "Try the arcade. That's where he usually goes."
But the manager said he hadn't been in all night, Nightbird thought, as she left the arcade's dim green lights and struck out onto the rooftops again. So... suppose Tommy Noonan is the Enemy. Suppose he doesn't operate from home because of his parents. Then he'd have a hideout. But where? Someplace nobody goes. The derelict factory under the railway viaduct? No --- too many homeless people use it for shelter. Unlikely. The condemned apartment buildings on Delaney?
It was a stretch, but worth a try.
The Enemy munched on potato chips and waited. I sure have learned patience since I made this costume, he thought wryly. I spend half my life waiting.
He doodled idly on the timetable he held in his hand.
His plan was made. He was leaving town --- but not by a route that anyone could trace. He'd travel over the rooftops to where the Gotham Union railway line hit a junction and branched in two separate directions. He would sneak aboard at Cliff Junction, then be over the gorge and out of the city, heading west. Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, California... they'd been just names to him before. Now, one of them was going to be his new home.
He wrapped the case carefully and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. Eleven o'clock. Time to go.
He pulled his mask into place, slung his grapple and line from his belt, and climbed out the window and up onto the roof. Cautiously, he peeked over the edge. Don't be stupid, he chided himself. Who'd be on a rooftop at this time of night?
His eyes widened in surprise as a figure in black dropped lithely from above, landing only a few yards from him.
"It's all over, Noonan. I know who you are."
The girl's voice was low and grin, and Tommy Noonan froze. This was the last thing he'd been expecting. Police searches, yes. Roadblocks, maybe. But a chick in a unitard and black leather jacket and fishnet stockings?
Tommy laughed nervously, almost a bark, before he regained his composure. I don't know who you are, girl, but you got no business with me." He got slowly to his feet, the metal grapple fastened to its line dangling from his hand. "Now let me pass and we'll both be on our way. Otherwise, you'll find out why I call myself the Enemy."
"Very dramatic. Where were you last night?" the girl demanded. "Anywhere near Joe's Diner?"
The Enemy's eyes were hidden by his leather mask, but his body stiffened perceptibly at the words, and Nightbird knew she'd found the right guy.
"What do you know about the murder of an old man?" she rasped. Her heart was thumping as she thought of Joe, who'd shown her so much kindness, who'd lit up so many evenings with his jokes --- lying cold and dead on the diner floor. More than anything else in the world, she wanted to teach this killer a lesson.
Instead of answering, the Enemy made his move. He spun the grapple, giving it an extra wrist-flick, then let it go. Nightbird saw it coming a fraction of a second too late. She ducked to the side, but not fast enough. The cold metal struck her on the shoulder and bounced back as the Enemy reeled it in. Then the Enemy lashed out with a straight kick that, if it had connected cleanly, might have broken Nightbird's ribs. She rode the blow at the last moment, tumbling to the rooftop and rolling.
Before Nightbird could get fully back up to her feet, the Enemy was on her, fists raining down in a barrage of blows to her head and shoulders. She covered herself as best she could, but every second another blow was finding a target. Pain shot through her whole upper body.
Nightbird remembered Batman's advice --- always leave your emotions at home. An angry fighter is a bad fighter. He makes too many mistakes. He loses the initiative.
Pity she hadn't thought of that sooner. She felt a sickening crunch on the side of her head, as the Enemy once again swung the heavy grapple at her.
"Another five minutes and I'd have been out of this stinking city," the Enemy snarled. "You can't stop me. Not now."
He shoved Nightbird hard. The girl's knees buckled as they struck the low parapet that ran around the edge of the roof. Suddenly she lost her balance. Flailing in vain to steady herself, she went over the edge.
The Enemy stood for a second, panting with exertion. He patted his jacket to make sure the money was still safe, then ran to the other side of the roof. His grapple flashed through the air, securing itself to a metal grille in the side of the building next door. He swung through the air, on his way out of Gotham, on his way to a new life. And if the voice of his conscience had anything to say about what she'd just done, Tommy wasn't in the mood for listening.
Barbara Wilson had fallen a good thirty feet before the long hours of training under the eyes of the finest --- and the last --- of the Flying Graysons kicked in and she was once again Nightbird. First she needed to break her fall. A flagpole flashed toward her and she reached out for it, gloved hands grasping its smooth metal. But her arms would have been ripped from their sockets if she'd clung on. She had to swing, the momentum of her body preventing the full weight of it from acting on the pole.
When her feet reached their highest point in the air, she let go. She soared toward the small stone balcony she'd targeted. But she was moving too fast to land on it. Kicking off almost as soon as her feet touched stone, she dived headfirst this time.
Her hands scrabbled against a drainpipe and she fought for a grip. The pipe creaked under her weight, but it didn't give. Seconds later, she'd shinnied up and onto the roof.
There was no sign of Tommy Noonan, the Enemy.
Nightbird had had not time to think, only react, when she'd fallen. But now that she was safe again, a dozen different sensations flooded through her: Relief that she was okay. Anger that she'd let the Enemy escape. Exhilaration at how it felt to be free and in costume again. Disappointment that she'd let old Joe down. And chagrin, because she'd forgotten the very first rule that Batman had taught her...
Suddenly dejected, Nightbird sat down on the roof edge. She felt like a fraud. She'd successfully fought against two of the world's worst villains --- Mr. Freeze and Poison Ivy --- she'd trained hard ever since then, and yet she'd lost out to a rank amateur with a homemade costume and a stupid name.
It had felt so good to be in costume again, to feel that she was doing something worthwhile... and now she'd failed at the very first hurdle. Her ribs, arm, and face were bruised. She tasted her own blood, and a probing tongue told her that she'd loosened a tooth. She'd thought she was to be a heroine again... and instead she'd brought disgrace on herself and those who had trained her.
She felt like giving up and slinking away into the shadows where nobody could find her and mock her pathetic efforts. Good thing Batman doesn't know about this, she reflected. Then she caught herself. The Batman...
What would the Batman do if this had happened to him? What would the Batman do if he had lost a fight and a murderer at the same time? Nightbird knew the one thing he wouldn't do was give up. Batman hid in the shadows because it suited his task, not because he was ashamed to face the world.
Yeah --- and how many times did I fall off a bicycle when I was a kid? Nightbird found herself wondering. But I didn't give up. I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and got right back on again, promising that I'd do better next time.
Brushing aside the wisps of self-pity that still clung to her, Nightbird got to her feet again. She'd been beaten. Okay, she'd do better next time, right? Right. So how could she make sure there would be a next time, when Tommy Noonan was by his own admission on his way out of the city?
"Always analyze what clues you have," Batman had always urged, down in the Batcave. Nightbird didn't exactly have any clues right now, unless...
Noonan had obviously been hiding out in the abandoned building. Maybe there was something he'd left behind.
Nightbird slithered on her belly until she overhung the roof edge, then reached down to grab the upper sill of a window that had long since lost its glass. Carefully, she swung herself down, taking the strain on her biceps, until she stood on the window ledge. After that it was a simple matter to slide inside.
The building had been constructed a century earlier, to house immigrant refugees who'd flooded into Gotham to escape persecution in Europe. The apartments were small, though many had been extended and improved later. Now they were like something from a war movie. Missing fireplaces and water tanks left ugly holes in the wall, and rain had penetrated into almost every room.
All units were empty, save one. It was as bad as the others, except it had an old mattress, and there were several empty food cartons and soda bottles lying around, as if somebody had spent a lot of time here. There was a map of the city, with drawings of buildings and their access points all marked out. And there was a timetable for the trains, leaving and entering the city, with a sketched map showing the rail track through Cliff Junction.
One figure was circled in black ink --- the Midnight Special, a train that blew out of Gotham on its way to New Orleans and all points west. Nightbird glanced at her watch --- a quarter to twelve. She could still make it to the central station and find Noonan before the train pulled out on its long journey.
Seconds later she was back on the roof, facing the direction of the station, a good mile away. Her line was already swinging in her hand when she thought: Wait! The station lay due east of here --- where Nightbird had fallen off the ledge. But if the Enemy had swung off in that direction, she would have seen him. And why the sketch map of Cliff Junction?
Nightbird tried to remember how the railway ran. Underground to start with, then on elevated tracks as it passed through the suburbs. But the line ran near the well-lit streets, and the Enemy would risk being seen by dozens of people. What next? The train would pick up speed along the straight stretch --- too fast to jump it there --- before it had to slow for the Cliff Road junction and the tight turn it had to make before taking the bridge high over the tumbling Gotham River.
Of course, Nightbird thought. He's going to jump the train at the junction!
Getting back up onto the roof, she ran across the roof to the other side and leaped over the same parapet over which she'd fallen only minutes ago.
Effortlessly she swung, let go, shot her line to a new anchor point, then swung again. Sometimes her landing brought her too low, and she had to scale a fire escape or billboard to give her the height necessary to continue. Sometimes she had to race along a roof edge only inches wide, with terrifying drops to the concrete far below. But Dick's training held; they didn't worry her at all.
Suddenly, like a clearing in a jungle, the high buildings ended, replaced by thirty or more blocks of single-story residential buildings. Hardly possible to swing from rooftop to rooftop there --- and running along the street in full view wasn't exactly good crimefighter style. Not that she particularly cared much about style right now.
Swiftly Nightbird dropped from the ledge to gargoyle to flagpole to low roof, finally vaulting from a second-floor fire escape to land lightly on top of a passing late-night bus. There was only one place it could be heading for in this direction --- the Cliff Road station.
Nightbird took the free ride all the way, along with the few passengers aboard who were heading for home in the small project nearby. As the bus slowed to enter the depot where it would turn, Nightbird's line shot out to catch hold of a nearby oak tree. Then she was gone, disappearing into the branches.
The tree stood at the bottom of a high, steep embankment along which the railway line ran. Nightbird intended to drop to the ground, then run back along the foot of the slope to the actual junction, where she guessed the Enemy would make his move. She glanced at her watch: a few minutes after midnight. She could already hear the steady beat of the locomotive as the train pulled out of the city and came quickly closer.
Nightbird saw its lights as it emerged from behind some warehouses. When she saw what was illuminated in the train's beam, she cursed. She'd guessed wrong!
The tracks ran alongside a building site, and silhouetted atop the boom of the squat crane that stood there was the Enemy. The boom jutted out only a yard or so higher than the train top, and the villain had an easy drop to the train roof. As the train rumbled below him, he jumped carefully, rolled, and clung close to the roof. A smug grin widened under his mask.
He'd done it! He was out of this city, on his way to better things. Three thousand dollars was a lot of money, but it wouldn't last long. He wasn't bothered. He knew what he could do, and what he did in Gotham, he could do anywhere else in America. He could mug people, and stick up stores and make himself a real good living. He just needed to plan things, select the right jobs, the ones that paid the most for the least effort and risk.
Maybe he'd drop a card to his mother and father telling them how well he was doing. Then again, maybe he wouldn't. He wasn't going to miss them and their nagging, and their dull, tedious lives. Tommy Noonan was going places! If he played this right, he could become a very rich guy indeed. For the first time since he'd struck the old man in the diner, the Enemy relaxed.
As the train roared toward her, Nightbird knew she could never drop to the ground, run up the banking, come alongside it, and leap aboard. It was going too fast, the banking too steep. She was going to lose her quarry again!
Unless...
Even as she thought of it, she knew she'd do it. Just above her head the tree trunk split into two forks. The larger went straight up, but the other branched out at a steep angle until its top overhung the tracks. Urgently, Nightbird climbed higher, out along the branching limb. In the darkness she was prodded and ripped by a dozen small, unseen twigs, but gamely she forced her way through them. The branch's very end stretched out over the railway tracks --- but a good twenty feet higher than the top of the train.
It was a long drop onto a moving target, and the train's speed meant she'd have to judge her landing to perfection or be thrown violently off. She could be seriously injured. Or worse.
Nightbird took a deep breath, consciously relaxing her entire body. With a monstrous roar the train charged by below her in a blur. It was now or never. She dropped.
She landed in a crouch slightly off center of the third car, arms spread wide in an attempt to keep her balance. She'd have done it, too, if the train hadn't lurched suddenly as it changed tracks. Jerked off balance, Nightbird toppled over to her left, hands scrabbling for purchase on the roof as she tried desperately to avoid being thrown off.
She succeeded, her fingers managing to obtain a hold on the low line of rivets that ran up the center of the roof. Just in time, for her feet and lower legs were already hanging out over the edge. She stayed as still as she could, only the grip of her fingers stopping her from being thrown off completely.
"Didn't learn the first time, eh?"
Nightbird's heart stopped. She had been so intent on saving herself that she hadn't seen the Enemy approach.
The train lurched again as the automatic signal switched it onto new tracks. And suddenly they were on the Highwater Bridge. Out of the corner of her eye, Nightbird could see the surging rapids as the river raged over the rock-strewn gorge three hundred feet below.
"No more chances!" The Enemy raised his foot and stomped down on Nightbird's hand. She grunted with pain, fingers clutching to retain what little grip they had. She couldn't fight back from this position --- and she couldn't stand too many more stomps like that before she'd have to let go. She'd arc through space to smash off the gorge's rocky walls before vanishing into the torrent below.
She had only one slim chance, and she took it. At the very moment the Enemy stomped down on her right hand, Nightbird let go with her left and grabbed. For a wild moment she thought she'd misjudged it. She felt her body starting to slide away over the edge of the train. But then her fingers grabbed the Enemy's ankle.
As the Enemy fell back off balance, Nightbird used her foe's own weight as an anchor to swing herself back onto the roof of the train.
They rolled to their feet as one, both angling to strike the other. But it was Nightbird's punch that connected first. It took the Enemy in the midriff, and he grunted and fell back. Nightbird pivoted, allowing for the motion of the swaying train. Her foot came up in a powerful karate kick that caught the Enemy hard on the thigh and made him stumble to his knees.
But the Enemy recovered fast, already rising to his feet again as Nightbird closed with him. They locked arms like lovers. No, not like lovers. Like wrestlers, each straining and maneuvering for the best advantage of the grip.
"You're a fool," the Enemy hissed, his voice raw. Up close, the mask gave him a near-demonic look. "I'm going to kill you now!"
"It takes more than a homemade mask to frighten me, creep," Nightbird shot back. Her muscles strained as she fought to force the other's arms back. "I know you for what you are --- a parasite! You feast on people weaker than you, people who can't fight back, people who work hard to get the money you steal from them!"
"It's the law of the jungle! The strong eat the weak!"
The veins in Nightbird's forehead bulged with effort. "We're not animals," she said emphatically. "We're human beings."
They strained against each other, constantly making tiny adjustments to their balance because of the moving train.
"I am the Enemy!" he snarled. "I prey on weaklings like you!"
"Is that so?" She wasn't impressed. "Well, I'm Nightbird. Remember the name. I stop people like you in their tracks!"
The engine had reached the end of the bridge, and its whistle gave out a long, lonely cry. Below, gnarled pine trees grew out of the cliff face, their ancient roots dug deep into the crumbling rock. And below them, almost straight down, a wall of water raged, the river's last outburst before it calmed and ran into the sea.
Without warning, Nightbird relaxed her grip and fell back. The Enemy was thrown forward by the momentum of his own effort. He gasped as Nightbird's booted feet came up to take him solidly in the chest. Then he was being hefted through the air, to slam onto the roof again on his back.
Though he was winded, the Enemy wasn't finished yet. As Nightbird turned to face him, the villain snatched his grapple from his waist and whirled it. It shot straight at the girl's face. But she ducked and the grapple sailed on into a branch of an overhanging tree. Suddenly the line went taut as the train sped on. Wound around the Enemy's waist, the line jerked him forcefully into the air. For a second he hung there --- and then the line snapped.
Nightbird raced along the carriage roof, reaching into her jacket pocket for her own line. But even if she threw it and lassoed her falling foe, the Enemy could still be killed as he was bounced off the cliff face and dragged along after the train. She wanted him captured, not killed. She wanted justice, not execution.
Her eyes drank in the whole scene below her in the instant before her legs tensed and she flung herself off the train, plunging headfirst after the Enemy. There was a tree halfway down --- rotten branches --- but if it held...
Nightbird reached out an arm and grabbed the Enemy around the waist. Her other hand sent her line curling out, the bat-shaped weight on the end curving like a flying saucer as it snaked up and around a branch. It snapped into place. The duo dropped past it, and the line grew taut.
Nightbird heard the sharp crack as the branch broke, but she was already swinging, using their momentum to launch them toward safety.
They landed in the branches of an aged and gnarled pine, its sharp needles digging into their exposed flesh. The Enemy made a last futile effort to win the fight, weakly drawing back his fist to take a swing at his savior.
But Nightbird had had enough. "No more chances for you!" she proclaimed, and her own fist crashed into the Enemy's jaw. "Lights out!"
The Enemy sagged against her, and Barbara Wilson breathed a sigh of relief. It was over. Later, she might think of what she'd done and shudder at the breathtaking audacity of it all. But now she was just relieved. She was alive, the Enemy had been caught, and she hadn't let old Joe down.
She knew she'd reached a turning point in her life. She'd chosen what she wanted to do. And she'd charged ahead and done it.
Now all I have to do, she thought with a wry smile, is figure out how to get myself and my prisoner out of a tree fifty feet above a whirlpool and up the slope to the railway, then walk the four miles back into Gotham.
It was going to be a long night!
